The Gadfly - E. L. Voynich (Ruồi Trâu)

"Then is your suggestion, signora, that we
should issue satirical pamphlets, or attempt to run
a comic paper? That last, I am sure, the censorship
would never allow."
"I don''t mean exactly either. I believe a series
of small satirical leaflets, in verse or prose, to be
sold cheap or distributed free about the streets,
would be very useful. If we could find a clever
artist who would enter into the spirit of the thing,
we might have them illustrated."
"It''s a capital idea, if only one could carry it
out; but if the thing is to be done at all it must
be well done. We should want a first-class satirist;
and where are we to get him?"
"You see," added Lega, "most of us are
serious writers; and, with all respect to the company,
I am afraid that a general attempt to be
humorous would present the spectacle of an elephant
trying to dance the tarantella."
"I never suggested that we should all rush into
work for which we are unfitted. My idea was
that we should try to find a really gifted satirist--
there must be one to be got somewhere in Italy,
surely--and offer to provide the necessary funds.
Of course we should have to know something of
the man and make sure that he would work on
lines with which we could agree."
"But where are you going to find him? I can
count up the satirists of any real talent on the
fingers of one hand; and none of them are available.
Giusti wouldn''t accept; he is fully occupied
as it is. There are one or two good men in
Lombardy, but they write only in the Milanese
dialect----"
"And moreover," said Grassini, "the Tuscan
people can be influenced in better ways than this.
I am sure that it would be felt as, to say the least,
a want of political savoir faire if we were to treat
this solemn question of civil and religious liberty
as a subject for trifling. Florence is not a mere
wilderness of factories and money-getting like
London, nor a haunt of idle luxury like Paris. It
is a city with a great history------"
"So was Athens," she interrupted, smiling;
"but it was ''rather sluggish from its size and
needed a gadfly to rouse it''----"
Riccardo struck his hand upon the table.
"Why, we never thought of the Gadfly! The very man!"
"Who is that?"
"The Gadfly--Felice Rivarez. Don''t you remember
him? One of Muratori''s band that came
down from the Apennines three years ago?"
"Oh, you knew that set, didn''t you? I remember
your travelling with them when they went on
to Paris."
"Yes; I went as far as Leghorn to see Rivarez
off for Marseilles. He wouldn''t stop in Tuscany;
he said there was nothing left to do but laugh,
once the insurrection had failed, and so he had
better go to Paris. No doubt he agreed with
Signor Grassini that Tuscany is the wrong place
to laugh in. But I am nearly sure he would come
back if we asked him, now that there is a chance
of doing something in Italy."
"What name did you say?"
"Rivarez. He''s a Brazilian, I think. At any
rate, I know he has lived out there. He is one of
the wittiest men I ever came across. Heaven
knows we had nothing to be merry over, that week
in Leghorn; it was enough to break one''s heart to
look at poor Lambertini; but there was no keeping
one''s countenance when Rivarez was in the
room; it was one perpetual fire of absur***ies. He
had a nasty sabre-cut across the face, too; I
remember sewing it up. He''s an odd creature;
but I believe he and his nonsense kept some of
those poor lads from breaking down altogether."
"Is that the man who writes political skits
in the French papers under the name of ''Le Taon''?"
"Yes; short paragraphs mostly, and comic
feuilletons. The smugglers up in the Apennines
called him ''the Gadfly'' because of his tongue;
and he took the nickname to sign his work
with."
"I know something about this gentleman,"
said Grassini, breaking in upon the conversation
in his slow and stately manner; "and I cannot say
that what I have heard is much to his cre***. He
undoubtedly possesses a certain showy, superficial
cleverness, though I think his abilities have been
exaggerated; and possibly he is not lacking in
physical courage; but his reputation in Paris and
Vienna is, I believe, very far from spotless. He
appears to be a gentleman of--a--a--many adventures
and unknown antecedents. It is said that he
was picked up out of charity by Duprez''s expe***ion
somewhere in the wilds of tropical South
America, in a state of inconceivable savagery and
degradation. I believe he has never satisfactorily
explained how he came to be in such a con***ion.
As for the rising in the Apennines, I fear it is no
101
secret that persons of all characters took part in
that unfortunate affair. The men who were executed
in Bologna are known to have been nothing
but common malefactors; and the character of
many who escaped will hardly bear description.
Without doubt, SOME of the participators were
men of high character----"
"Some of them were the intimate friends of
several persons in this room!" Riccardo interrupted,
with an angry ring in his voice. "It''s all
very well to be particular and exclusive, Grassini;
but these ''common malefactors'' died for their
belief, which is more than you or I have done as
yet."
"And another time when people tell you the
stale gossip of Paris," added Galli, "you can tell
them from me that they are mistaken about the
Duprez expe***ion. I know Duprez''s adjutant,
Martel, personally, and have heard the whole story
from him. It''s true that they found Rivarez
stranded out there. He had been taken prisoner
in the war, fighting for the Argentine Republic,
and had escaped. He was wandering about the
country in various disguises, trying to get back
to Buenos Ayres. But the story of their taking
him on out of charity is a pure fabrication. Their
interpreter had fallen ill and been obliged to turn
back; and not one of the Frenchmen could speak
the native languages; so they offered him the post,
and he spent the whole three years with them,
exploring the tributaries of the Amazon. Martel
told me he believed they never would have got
through the expe***ion at all if it had not been
for Rivarez."
"Whatever he may be," said Fabrizi; "there
must be something remarkable about a man who
could lay his ''come hither'' on two old campaigners
like Martel and Duprez as he seems to have
done. What do you think, signora?"
"I know nothing about the matter; I was in
England when the fugitives passed through Tuscany.
But I should think that if the companions
who were with a man on a three years'' expe***ion
in savage countries, and the comrades who were
with him through an insurrection, think well of
him, that is recommendation enough to counterbalance
a good deal of boulevard gossip."
"There is no question about the opinion his
comrades had of him," said Riccardo. "From
Muratori and Zambeccari down to the roughest
mountaineers they were all devoted to him.
Moreover, he is a personal friend of Orsini. It''s
quite true, on the other hand, that there are endless
****-and-bull stories of a not very pleasant
kind going about concerning him in Paris; but if
a man doesn''t want to make enemies he shouldn''t
become a political satirist."
"I''m not quite sure," interposed Lega; "but
it seems to me that I saw him once when
the refugees were here. Was he not hunchbacked,
or crooked, or something of that kind?"
The professor had opened a drawer in his writing-table
and was turning over a heap of papers.
"I think I have his police description somewhere
here," he said. "You remember when they escaped
and hid in the mountain passes their personal
appearance was posted up everywhere, and
that Cardinal--what''s the scoundrel''s name?--
Spinola, offered a reward for their heads."
"There was a splendid story about Rivarez and
that police paper, by the way. He put on a
soldier''s old uniform and tramped across country
as a carabineer wounded in the discharge of his
duty and trying to find his company. He actually
got Spinola''s search-party to give him a lift, and
rode the whole day in one of their waggons,
telling them harrowing stories of how he had been
taken captive by the rebels and dragged off into
their haunts in the mountains, and of the fearful
tortures that he had suffered at their hands. They
showed him the description paper, and he told
them all the rubbish he could think of about ''the
fiend they call the Gadfly.'' Then at night, when
they were asleep, he poured a bucketful of water
into their powder and decamped, with his pockets
full of provisions and ammunition------"
"Ah, here''s the paper," Fabrizi broke in: "''Felice
Rivarez, called: The Gadfly. Age, about 30;
birthplace and parentage, unknown, probably
South American; profession, journalist. Short;
black hair; black beard; dark skin; eyes, blue;
forehead, broad and square; nose, mouth, chin------''
Yes, here it is: ''Special marks: right foot lame;
left arm twisted; two ringers missing on left hand;
recent sabre-cut across face; stammers.'' Then
there''s a note put: ''Very expert shot; care should
be taken in arresting.''"
"It''s an extraordinary thing that he can have
managed to deceive the search-party with such a
formidable list of identification marks."
"It was nothing but sheer audacity that carried
him through, of course. If it had once occurred
to them *****spect him he would have been lost.
But the air of confiding innocence that he can put
on when he chooses would bring a man through
anything. Well, gentlemen, what do you think of
the proposal? Rivarez seems to be pretty well
known to several of the company. Shall we suggest
to him that we should be glad of his help
here or not?"
"I think," said Fabrizi, "that he might be
sounded upon the subject, just to find out whether
he would be inclined to think of the plan."
"Oh, he''ll be inclined, you may be sure, once
it''s a case of fighting the Jesuits; he is the most
savage anti-clerical I ever met; in fact, he''s rather
rabid on the point."
"Then will you write, Riccardo?"
"Certainly. Let me see, where is he now? In
Switzerland, I think. He''s the most restless
being; always flitting about. But as for the pamphlet
question----"
They plunged into a long and animated discussion.
When at last the company began to disperse Martini
went up to the quiet young woman.
"I will see you home, Gemma."
"Thanks; I want to have a business talk with
you."
"Anything wrong with the addresses?" he
asked softly.
"Nothing serious; but I think it is time to make
a few alterations. Two letters have been stopped
in the post this week. They were both quite unimportant,
and it may have been accidental; but
we cannot afford to have any risks. If once the
police have begun *****spect any of our addresses,
they must be changed immediately."
"I will come in about that to-morrow. I am
not going to talk business with you to-night;
you look tired."
"I am not tired."
"Then you are depressed again."
"Oh, no; not particularly."

CHAPTER II.
"Is the mistress in, Katie?"
"Yes, sir; she is dressing. If you''ll just step
into the parlour she will be down in a few
minutes."
Katie ushered the visitor in with the cheerful
friendliness of a true Devonshire girl. Martini
was a special favourite of hers. He spoke English,
like a foreigner, of course, but still quite respectably;
and he never sat discussing politics at the top
of his voice till one in the morning, when the mistress
was tired, as some visitors had a way of
doing. Moreover, he had come to Devonshire to
help the mistress in her trouble, when her baby
was dead and her husband dying there; and ever
since that time the big, awkward, silent man had
been to Katie as much "one of the family" as was
the lazy black cat which now ensconced itself upon
his knee. Pasht, for his part, regarded Martini
as a useful piece of household furniture. This
visitor never trod upon his tail, or puffed tobacco
smoke into his eyes, or in any way obtruded upon
his consciousness an aggressive biped personality.
He behaved as a mere man should: provided a
comfortable knee to lie upon and purr, and at table
never forgot that to look on while human beings
eat fish is not interesting for a cat. The friendship
between them was of old date. Once, when
Pasht was a kitten and his mistress too ill to think
about him, he had come from England under Martini''s
care, tucked away in a basket. Since then,
long experience had convinced him that this
clumsy human bear was no fair-weather friend.
"How snug you look, you two!" said Gemma,
coming into the room. "One would think you
had settled yourselves for the evening."
Martini carefully lifted the cat off his knee. "I
came early," he said, "in the hope that you will
give me some tea before we start. There will
probably be a frightful crush, and Grassini won''t
give us any sensible supper--they never do in
those fashionable houses."
"Come now!" she said, laughing; "that''s as
bad as Galli! Poor Grassini has quite enough sins
of his own to answer for without having his wife''s
imperfect housekeeping visited upon his head.
As for the tea, it will be ready in a minute. Katie
has been making some Devonshire cakes specially
for you."
"Katie is a good soul, isn''t she, Pasht? By the
way, so are you to have put on that pretty dress.
I was afraid you would forget."
"I promised you I would wear it, though it is
rather warm for a hot evening like this."
"It will be much cooler up at Fiesole; and
nothing else ever suits you so well as white cashmere.
I have brought you some flowers to wear with it."
"Oh, those lovely cluster roses; I am so fond
of them! But they had much better go into water.
I hate to wear flowers."
"Now that''s one of your superstitious fancies."
"No, it isn''t; only I think they must get so
bored, spending all the evening pinned *****ch a
dull companion."
"I am afraid we shall all be bored to-night. The
conversazione will be dull beyond endurance."
"Why?"
"Partly because everything Grassini touches
becomes as dull as himself."
"Now don''t be spiteful. It is not fair when we
are going to be a man''s guests."
"You are always right, Madonna. Well then,
it will be dull because half the interesting people
are not coming."
"How is that?"
"I don''t know. Out of town, or ill, or something.
Anyway, there will be two or three ambassadors
and some learned Germans, and the usual
nondescript crowd of tourists and Russian princes
and literary club people, and a few French officers;
nobody else that I know of--except, of course,
the new satirist, who is to be the attraction of the
evening."
"The new satirist? What, Rivarez? But I
thought Grassini disapproved of him so strongly."
"Yes; but once the man is here and is sure to
be talked about, of course Grassini wants his house
to be the first place where the new lion will be on
show. You may be sure Rivarez has heard nothing
of Grassini''s disapproval. He may have guessed
it, though; he''s sharp enough."
"I did not even know he had come."
"He only arrived yesterday. Here comes the
tea. No, don''t get up; let me fetch the kettle."
He was never so happy as in this little study.
Gemma''s friendship, her grave unconsciousness of
the charm she exercised over him, her frank and
simple comradeship were the brightest things for
him in a life that was none too bright; and whenever
he began to feel more than usually depressed
he would come in here after business hours and
sit with her, generally in silence, watching her as
she bent over her needlework or poured out tea.
She never questioned him about his troubles or
expressed any sympathy in words; but he always
went away stronger and calmer, feeling, as he put
it to himself, that he could "trudge through
another fortnight quite respectably." She possessed,
without knowing it, the rare gift of consolation;
and when, two years ago, his dearest
friends had been betrayed in Calabria and shot
down like wolves, her steady faith had been perhaps
the thing which had saved him from despair.
On Sunday mornings he sometimes came in to
"talk business," that expression standing for anything
connected with the practical work of the
Mazzinian party, of which they both were active
and devoted members. She was quite a different
creature then; keen, cool, and logical, perfectly
accurate and perfectly neutral. Those who saw
her only at her political work regarded her as a
trained and disciplined conspirator, trustworthy,
courageous, in every way a valuable member of
the party, but somehow lacking in life and individuality.
"She''s a born conspirator, worth any
dozen of us; and she is nothing more," Galli had
said of her. The "Madonna Gemma" whom
Martini knew was very difficult to get at.
"Well, and what is your ''new satirist'' like?"
she asked, glancing back over her shoulder as she
opened the sideboard. "There, Cesare, there are
barley-sugar and candied angelica for you. I wonder,
by the way, why revolutionary men are always
so fond of sweets."
"Other men are, too, only they think it beneath
their dignity to confess it. The new satirist? Oh,
the kind of man that ordinary women will rave
over and you will dislike. A sort of professional
dealer in sharp speeches, that goes about the world
with a lackadaisical manner and a handsome ballet-girl
dangling on to his coat-tails."
"Do you mean that there is really a ballet-girl,
or simply that you feel cross and want to imitate
the sharp speeches?"
"The Lord defend me! No; the ballet-girl is
real enough and handsome enough, too, for those
who like shrewish beauty. Personally, I don''t.
She''s a Hungarian gipsy, or something of that
kind, so Riccardo says; from some provincial
theatre in Galicia. He seems to be rather a cool
hand; he has been introducing the girl to people
just as if she were his maiden aunt."
"Well, that''s only fair if he has taken her away
from her home."
"You may look at things that way, dear Madonna,
but society won''t. I think most people
will very much resent being introduced to a woman
whom they know to be his mistress."
"How can they know it unless he tells them
so?"
"It''s plain enough; you''ll see if you meet her.
But I should think even he would not have the
audacity to bring her to the Grassinis''."
"They wouldn''t receive her. Signora Grassini
is not the woman to do unconventional things of
that kind. But I wanted to hear about Signor
Rivarez as a satirist, not as a man. Fabrizi told
me he had been written to and had consented to
come and take up the campaign against the
Jesuits; and that is the last I have heard. There
has been such a rush of work this week."
"I don''t know that I can tell you much more.
There doesn''t seem to have been any difficulty
over the money question, as we feared there would
be. He''s well off, it appears, and willing to work
for nothing."
"Has he a private fortune, then?"
"Apparently he has; though it seems rather
odd--you heard that night at Fabrizi''s about
the state the Duprez expe***ion found him
in. But he has got shares in mines somewhere
out in Brazil; and then he has been immensely
successful as a feuilleton writer in Paris and
Vienna and London. He seems to have half a
dozen languages at his finger-tips; and there''s
nothing to prevent his keeping up his newspaper
connections from here. Slanging the Jesuits
won''t take all his time."
"That''s true, of course. It''s time to start,
Cesare. Yes, I will wear the roses. Wait just a
minute."
She ran upstairs, and came back with the roses
in the bosom of her dress, and a long scarf of black
Spanish lace thrown over her head. Martini surveyed
her with artistic approval.
"You look like a queen, Madonna mia; like
the great and wise Queen of Sheba."
"What an unkind speech!" she retorted,
laughing; "when you know how hard I''ve been
trying to mould myself into the image of the typical
society lady! Who wants a conspirator to
look like the Queen of Sheba? That''s not the
way to keep clear of spies."
"You''ll never be able to personate the stupid
society woman if you try for ever. But it doesn''t
matter, after all; you''re too fair to look upon for
spies to guess your opinions, even though you
can''t simper and hide behind your fan like Signora
Grassini."
"Now Cesare, let that poor woman alone!
There, take some more barley-sugar to sweeten
your temper. Are you ready? Then we had
better start."
Martini had been quite right in saying that the
conversazione would be both crowded and dull.
The literary men talked polite small-talk and
looked hopelessly bored, while the "nondescript
crowd of tourists and Russian princes" fluttered
up and down the rooms, asking each other who
were the various celebrities and trying to carry on
intellectual conversation. Grassini was receiving
his guests with a manner as carefully polished as
his boots; but his cold face lighted up at the sight
of Gemma. He did not really like her and indeed
was secretly a little afraid of her; but he realized
that without her his drawing room would lack a
great attraction. He had risen high in his profession,
and now that he was rich and well known
his chief ambition was to make of his house a
centre of liberal and intellectual society. He was
painfully conscious that the insignificant, overdressed
little woman whom in his youth he had
made the mistake of marrying was not fit, with
her vapid talk and faded prettiness, to be the
mistress of a great literary salon. When he could
prevail upon Gemma to come he always felt that
the evening would be a success. Her quiet
graciousness of manner set the guests at their ease,
and her very presence seemed to lay the spectre
of vulgarity which always, in his imagination,
haunted the house.
Signora Grassini greeted Gemma affectionately,
exclaiming in a loud whisper: "How charming
you look to-night!" and examining the white
cashmere with viciously critical eyes. She hated
her visitor rancourously, for the very things for
which Martini loved her; for her quiet strength
of character; for her grave, sincere directness;
for the steady balance of her mind; for the very
expression of her face. And when Signora Grassini
hated a woman, she showed it by effusive tenderness.
Gemma took the compliments and
endearments for what they were worth, and
troubled her head no more about them. What
is called "going into society" was in her eyes one
of the wearisome and rather unpleasant tasks
which a conspirator who wishes not to attract the
notice of spies must conscientiously fulfil. She
classed it together with the laborious work of
writing in cipher; and, knowing how valuable a
practical safeguard against suspicion is the reputation
of being a well-dressed woman, studied the
fashion-plates as carefully as she did the keys of
her ciphers.
The bored and melancholy literary lions brightened
up a little at the sound of Gemma''s name;
she was very popular among them; and the radical
journalists, especially, gravitated at once to her
end of the long room. But she was far too practised
a conspirator to let them monopolize her.
Radicals could be had any day; and now, when
they came crowding round her, she gently sent
them about their business, reminding them with a
smile that they need not waste their time on converting
her when there were so many tourists in
need of instruction. For her part, she devoted
herself to an English M. P. whose sympathies the
republican party was anxious to gain; and, knowing
him to be a specialist on finance, she first won
his attention by asking his opinion on a technical
point concerning the Austrian currency, and then
deftly turned the conversation to the con***ion of
the Lombardo-Venetian revenue. The Englishman,
who had expected to be bored with small-talk,
looked askance at her, evidently fearing that
he had fallen into the clutches of a blue-stocking;
but finding that she was both pleasant to look at
and interesting to talk to, surrendered completely
and plunged into as grave a discussion of Italian
finance as if she had been Metternich. When
Grassini brought up a Frenchman "who wishes to
ask Signora Bolla something about the history of
Young Italy," the M. P. rose with a bewildered
sense that perhaps there was more ground for
Italian discontent than he had supposed.

Later in the evening Gemma slipped out on to
the terrace under the drawing-room windows to
sit alone for a few moments among the great
camellias and oleanders. The close air and continually
shifting crowd in the rooms were beginning to give her
a headache. At the further end of the terrace stood a
row of palms and tree-ferns, planted in large tubs
which were hidden by a bank of lilies and other
flowering plants. The whole formed a complete screen,
behind which was a little nook commanding a beautiful
view out across the valley. The branches of a pomegranate
tree, clustered with late blossoms, hung beside the
narrow opening between the plants.
In this nook Gemma took refuge, hoping that
no one would guess her whereabouts until she had
secured herself against the threatening headache
by a little rest and silence. The night was warm
and beautifully still; but coming out from the
hot, close rooms she felt it cool, and drew her lace
scarf about her head.
Presently the sounds of voices and footsteps
approaching along the terrace roused her from the
dreamy state into which she had fallen. She drew
back into the shadow, hoping to escape notice and
get a few more precious minutes of silence before
again having to rack her tired brain for conversation.
To her great annoyance the footsteps
paused near to the screen; then Signora Grassini''s
thin, piping little voice broke off for a moment in
its stream of chatter.
The other voice, a man''s, was remarkably soft
and musical; but its sweetness of tone was marred
by a peculiar, purring drawl, perhaps mere affectation,
more probably the result of a habitual
effort to conquer some impediment of speech, but
in any case very unpleasant.
"English, did you say?" it asked. "But
surely the name is quite Italian. What was it--
Bolla?"
"Yes; she is the widow of poor Giovanni Bolla,
who died in England about four years ago,--
don''t you remember? Ah, I forgot--you lead
such a wandering life; we can''t expect you to
know of all our unhappy country''s martyrs--they
are so many!"
Signora Grassini sighed. She always talked in
this style to strangers; the role of a patriotic
mourner for the sorrows of Italy formed an effective
combination with her boarding-school manner and
pretty infantine pout.
"Died in England!" repeated the other voice.
"Was he a refugee, then? I seem to recognize
the name, somehow; was he not connected with
Young Italy in its early days?"
"Yes; he was one of the unfortunate young
men who were arrested in ''33--you remember
that sad affair? He was released in a few months;
then, two or three years later, when there was a
warrant out against him again, he escaped to
England. The next we heard was that he was
married there. It was a most romantic affair altogether,
but poor Bolla always was romantic."
"And then he died in England, you say?"
"Yes, of consumption; he could not stand that
terrible English climate. And she lost her only
child just before his death; it caught scarlet fever.
Very sad, is it not? And we are all so fond of
dear Gemma! She is a little stiff, poor thing; the
English always are, you know; but I think her
troubles have made her melancholy, and----"
Gemma stood up and pushed back the boughs
of the pomegranate tree. This retailing of her
private sorrows for purposes of small-talk was
almost unbearable to her, and there was visible
annoyance in her face as she stepped into the
light.
"Ah! here she is!" exclaimed the hostess, with
admirable coolness. "Gemma, dear, I was wondering
where you could have disappeared to.
Signor Felice Rivarez wishes to make your
acquaintance."
"So it''s the Gadfly," thought Gemma, looking
at him with some curiosity. He bowed to her
decorously enough, but his eyes glanced over her
face and figure with a look which seemed to
her insolently keen and inquisitorial.
"You have found a d-d-delightful little nook
here," he remarked, looking at the thick screen;
"and w-w-what a charming view!"
"Yes; it''s a pretty corner. I came out here to
get some air."
"It seems almost ungrateful to the good God
to stay indoors on such a lovely night," said the
hostess, raising her eyes to the stars. (She had
good eyelashes and liked to show them.) "Look,
signore! Would not our sweet Italy be heaven
on earth if only she were free? To think that she
should be a bond-slave, with such flowers and such
skies!"
"And such patriotic women!" the Gadfly murmured
in his soft, languid drawl.
Gemma glanced round at him in some trepidation;
his impudence was too glaring, surely, to
deceive anyone. But she had underrated Signora
Grassini''s appetite for compliments; the poor
woman cast down her lashes with a sigh.
"Ah, signore, it is so little that a woman can
do! Perhaps some day I may prove my right to
the name of an Italian--who knows? And now
I must go back to my social duties; the French
ambassador has begged me to introduce his ward
to all the notabilities; you must come in presently
and see her. She is a most charming girl.
Gemma, dear, I brought Signor Rivarez out to
show him our beautiful view; I must leave him
under your care. I know you will look after him
and introduce him to everyone. Ah! there is
that delightful Russian prince! Have you met
him? They say he is a great favourite of the
Emperor Nicholas. He is military commander
of some Polish town with a name that nobody can
pronounce. Quelle nuit magnifique! N''est-ce-pas,
mon prince?"
She fluttered away, chattering volubly to a
bull-necked man with a heavy jaw and a coat glittering
with orders; and her plaintive dirges for
"notre malheureuse patrie," interpolated with
"charmant" and "mon prince," died away along
the terrace.
Gemma stood quite still beside the pomegranate
tree. She was sorry for the poor, silly
little woman, and annoyed at the Gadfly''s languid
insolence. He was watching the retreating figures
with an expression of face that angered her; it
seemed ungenerous to mock at such pitiable creatures.
"There go Italian and--Russian patriotism,"
he said, turning to her with a smile; "arm in arm
and mightily pleased with each other''s company.
Which do you prefer?"
She frowned slightly and made no answer.
"Of c-course," he went on; "it''s all a question
of p-personal taste; but I think, of the two, I like
the Russian variety best--it''s so thorough. If
Russia had to depend on flowers and skies for her
supremacy instead of on powder and shot, how
long do you think ''mon prince'' would k-keep
that Polish fortress?"
"I think," she answered coldly, "that we can
hold our personal opinions without ridiculing a
woman whose guests we are."
"Ah, yes! I f-forgot the obligations of hospitality
here in Italy; they are a wonderfully hospitable
people, these Italians. I''m sure the
Austrians find them so. Won''t you sit down?"
He limped across the terrace to fetch a chair
for her, and placed himself opposite to her, leaning
against the balustrade. The light from a
window was shining full on his face; and she was
able to study it at her leisure.
She was disappointed. She had expected to
see a striking and powerful, if not pleasant face;
but the most salient points of his appearance were
a tendency to foppishness in dress and rather more
than a tendency to a certain veiled insolence of
expression and manner. For the rest, he was as
swarthy as a mulatto, and, notwithstanding his
lameness, as agile as a cat. His whole personality
was oddly suggestive of a black jaguar. The forehead
and left cheek were terribly disfigured by
the long crooked scar of the old sabre-cut; and
she had already noticed that, when he began to
stammer in speaking, that side of his face was
affected with a nervous twitch. But for these
defects he would have been, in a certain restless
and uncomfortable way, rather handsome; but it
was not an attractive face.
Presently he began again in his soft, murmuring
purr ("Just the voice a jaguar would talk in,
if it could speak and were in a good humour,"
Gemma said to herself with rising irritation).
"I hear," he said, "that you are interested in
the radical press, and write for the papers."
"I write a little; I have not time to do much."
"Ah, of course! I understood from Signora
Grassini that you undertake other important
work as well."
Gemma raised her eyebrows slightly. Signora
Grassini, like the silly little woman she was, had
evidently been chattering imprudently to this
slippery creature, whom Gemma, for her part, was
beginning actually to dislike.
"My time is a good deal taken up," she said
rather stiffly; "but Signora Grassini overrates
the importance of my occupations. They are
mostly of a very trivial character."
"Well, the world would be in a bad way if we
ALL of us spent our time in chanting dirges for
Italy. I should think the neighbourhood of our
host of this evening and his wife would make anybody
frivolous, in self-defence. Oh, yes, I know
what you''re going to say; you are perfectly right,
but they are both so deliciously funny with their
patriotism.--Are you going in already? It is so
nice out here!"
"I think I will go in now. Is that my scarf?
Thank you."
He had picked it up, and now stood looking at
her with wide eyes as blue and innocent as forget-me-nots
in a brook.
"I know you are offended with me," he said
penitently, "for fooling that painted-up wax doll;
but what can a fellow do?"
"Since you ask me, I do think it an ungenerous
and--well--cowardly thing to hold one''s intellectual
inferiors up to ridicule in that way; it is
like laughing at a cripple, or------"
He caught his breath suddenly, painfully; and
shrank back, glancing at his lame foot and mutilated
hand. In another instant he recovered his
self-possession and burst out laughing.
"That''s hardly a fair comparison, signora; we
cripples don''t flaunt our deformities in people''s
faces as she does her stupi***y. At least give us
cre*** for recognizing that crooked backs are no
pleasanter than crooked ways. There is a step
here; will you take my arm?"
She re-entered the house in embarrassed silence;
his unexpected sensitiveness had completely disconcerted her.
Directly he opened the door of the great reception
room she realized that something unusual
had happened in her absence. Most of the gentlemen
looked both angry and uncomfortable;
the ladies, with hot cheeks and carefully feigned
unconsciousness, were all collected at one end of
the room; the host was fingering his eye-glasses
with suppressed but unmistakable fury, and a little
group of tourists stood in a corner casting amused
glances at the further end of the room. Evidently
something was going on there which appeared to
them in the light of a joke, and to most
of the guests in that of an insult. Signora Grassini
alone did not appear to have noticed anything;
she was fluttering her fan coquettishly
and chattering to the secretary of the Dutch
embassy, who listened with a broad grin on his
face.
Gemma paused an instant in the doorway, turning
to see if the Gadfly, too, had noticed the disturbed
appearance of the company. There was
no mistaking the malicious triumph in his eyes as
he glanced from the face of the blissfully unconscious
hostess to a sofa at the end of the room.
She understood at once; he had brought his mistress
here under some false colour, which had
deceived no one but Signora Grassini.
The gipsy-girl was leaning back on the sofa,
surrounded by a group of simpering dandies and
blandly ironical cavalry officers. She was gorgeously
dressed in amber and scarlet, with an
Oriental brilliancy of tint and profusion of ornament
as startling in a Florentine literary salon
as if she had been some tropical bird among
sparrows and starlings. She herself seemed to
feel out of place, and looked at the offended
ladies with a fiercely contemptuous scowl. Catching
sight of the Gadfly as he crossed the room
with Gemma, she sprang up and came towards
him, with a voluble flood of painfully incorrect
French.
"M. Rivarez, I have been looking for you everywhere!
Count Saltykov wants to know whether
you can go to his villa to-morrow night. There
will be dancing."
"I am sorry I can''t go; but then I couldn''t
dance if I did. Signora Bolla, allow me to introduce
to you Mme. Zita Reni."
The gipsy glanced round at Gemma with a half
defiant air and bowed stiffly. She was certainly
handsome enough, as Martini had said, with a
vivid, animal, unintelligent beauty; and the perfect
harmony and freedom of her movements were
delightful to see; but her forehead was low and
narrow, and the line of her delicate nostrils was
unsympathetic, almost cruel. The sense of
oppression which Gemma had felt in the Gadfly''s
society was intensified by the gypsy''s presence;
and when, a moment later, the host came up to
beg Signora Bolla to help him entertain some
tourists in the other room, she consented with an
odd feeling of relief.
. . . . .
"Well, Madonna, and what do you think of the
Gadfly?" Martini asked as they drove back to
Florence late at night. "Did you ever see anything
quite so shameless as the way he fooled that
poor little Grassini woman?"
"About the ballet-girl, you mean?"
"Yes, he persuaded her the girl was going to
be the lion of the season. Signora Grassini would
do anything for a celebrity."
"I thought it an unfair and unkind thing to
do; it put the Grassinis into a false position; and
it was nothing less than cruel to the girl herself.
I am sure she felt ill at ease."
"You had a talk with him, didn''t you? What
did you think of him?"
"Oh, Cesare, I didn''t think anything except
how glad I was to see the last of him. I never
met anyone so fearfully tiring. He gave me a
headache in ten minutes. He is like an incarnate
demon of unrest."
"I thought you wouldn''t like him; and, to tell
the truth, no more do I. The man''s as slippery
as an eel; I don''t trust him."

CHAPTER III.
THE Gadfly took lodgings outside the Roman
gate, near to which Zita was boarding. He was
evidently somewhat of a sybarite; and, though
nothing in the rooms showed any serious extravagance,
there was a tendency to luxuriousness in
trifles and to a certain fastidious daintiness in the
arrangement of everything which surprised Galli
and Riccardo. They had expected to find a man
who had lived among the wildernesses of the Amazon
more simple in his tastes, and wondered at his
spotless ties and rows of boots, and at the masses
of flowers which always stood upon his writing
table. On the whole they got on very well with
him. He was hospitable and friendly to everyone,
especially to the local members of the Mazzinian
party. To this rule Gemma, apparently, formed
an exception; he seemed to have taken a dislike to
her from the time of their first meeting, and in
every way avoided her company. On two or three
occasions he was actually rude to her, thus bringing
upon himself Martini''s most cordial detestation.
There had been no love lost between the
two men from the beginning; their temperaments
appeared to be too incompatible for them to feel
anything but repugnance for each other. On
Martini''s part this was fast developing into
hostility.
"I don''t care about his not liking me," he said
one day to Gemma with an aggrieved air. "I
don''t like him, for that matter; so there''s no harm
done. But I can''t stand the way he behaves to
you. If it weren''t for the scandal it would make
in the party first to beg a man to come and then
to quarrel with him, I should call him to account
for it."
"Let him alone, Cesare; it isn''t of any consequence,
and after all, it''s as much my fault as his."
"What is your fault?"
"That he dislikes me so. I said a brutal thing
to him when we first met, that night at the
Grassinis''."
"YOU said a brutal thing? That''s hard to
believe, Madonna."
"It was unintentional, of course, and I was very
sorry. I said something about people laughing at
cripples, and he took it personally. It had never
occurred to me to think of him as a cripple; he is
not so badly deformed."
"Of course not. He has one shoulder higher
than the other, and his left arm is pretty badly
disabled, but he''s neither hunchbacked nor clubfooted.
As for his lameness, it isn''t worth talking
about."
"Anyway, he shivered all over and changed
colour. Of course it was horribly tactless of me,
but it''s odd he should be so sensitive. I wonder
if he has ever suffered from any cruel jokes of that
kind."
"Much more likely to have perpetrated them, I
should think. There''s a sort of internal brutality
about that man, under all his fine manners, that
is perfectly sickening to me."
"Now, Cesare, that''s downright unfair. I
don''t like him any more than you do, but what is
the use of making him out worse than he is? His
manner is a little affected and irritating--I expect
he has been too much lionized--and the everlasting
smart speeches are dreadfully tiring; but I
don''t believe he means any harm."
"I don''t know what he means, but there''s something
not clean about a man who sneers at everything. It
fairly disgusted me the other day at
Fabrizi''s debate to hear the way he cried down
the reforms in Rome, just as if he wanted to find
a foul motive for everything."
Gemma sighed. "I am afraid I agreed better
with him than with you on that point," she said.
"All you good people are so full of the most
delightful hopes and expectations; you are always
ready to think that if one well-meaning middle-aged
gentleman happens to get elected Pope,
everything else will come right of itself. He has
only got to throw open the prison doors and give
his blessing to everybody all round, and we may
expect the millennium within three months. You
never seem able to see that he can''t set things
right even if he would. It''s the principle of the
thing that''s wrong, not the behaviour of this man
or that."
"What principle? The temporal power of the
Pope?"
"Why that in particular? That''s merely a part
of the general wrong. The bad principle is that
any man should hold over another the power to
bind and loose. It''s a false relationship to stand
in towards one''s fellows."
Martini held up his hands. "That will do, Madonna,"
he said, laughing. "I am not going to
discuss with you, once you begin talking rank
Antinomianism in that fashion. I''m sure your
ancestors must have been English Levellers in the
seventeenth century. Besides, what I came round
about is this MS."
He pulled it out of his pocket.
"Another new pamphlet?"
"A stupid thing this wretched man Rivarez
sent in to yesterday''s committee. I knew we
should come to loggerheads with him before
long."
"What is the matter with it? Honestly,
Cesare, I think you are a little prejudiced. Rivarez
may be unpleasant, but he''s not stupid."
"Oh, I don''t deny that this is clever enough in
its way; but you had better read the thing
yourself."
The pamphlet was a skit on the wild enthusiasm
over the new Pope with which Italy was still
ringing. Like all the Gadfly''s writing, it was
bitter and vindictive; but, notwithstanding her
irritation at the style, Gemma could not help
recognizing in her heart the justice of the criticism.
"I quite agree with you that it is detestably
malicious," she said, laying down the manuscript.
"But the worst thing about it is that it''s all true."
"Gemma!"
"Yes, but it is. The man''s a cold-blooded eel,
if you like; but he''s got the truth on his side.
There is no use in our trying to persuade ourselves
that this doesn''t hit the mark--it does!"
"Then do you suggest that we should print it?"
"Ah! that''s quite another matter. I certainly
don''t think we ought to print it as it stands; it
would hurt and alienate everybody and do no
good. But if he would rewrite it and cut out the
personal attacks, I think it might be made into a
really valuable piece of work. As political criticism
it is very fine. I had no idea he could write
so well. He says things which need saying and
which none of us have had the courage to say.
This passage, where he compares Italy to a tipsy
man weeping with tenderness on the neck of the
thief who is picking his pocket, is splendidly
written."
"Gemma! The very worst bit in the whole
thing! I hate that ill-natured yelping at everything
and everybody!"
"So do I; but that''s not the point. Rivarez
has a very disagreeable style, and as a human being
he is not attractive; but when he says that we have
made ourselves drunk with processions and embracing
and shouting about love and reconciliation, and that
the Jesuits and Sanfedists are the people who will
profit by it all, he''s right a thousand times. I
wish I could have been at the committee yesterday.
What decision did you finally arrive at?"
"What I have come here about: to ask you to
go and talk it over with him and persuade him to
soften the thing."
"Me? But I hardly know the man; and besides
that, he detests me. Why should I go, of all
people?"
"Simply because there''s no one else to do it
to-day. Besides, you are more reasonable than
the rest of us, and won''t get into useless arguments
and quarrel with him, as we should."
"I shan''t do that, certainly. Well, I will go if
you like, though I have not much hope of success."
"I am sure you will be able to manage him if
you try. Yes, and tell him that the committee
all admired the thing from a literary point of view.
That will put him into a good humour, and it''s perfectly
true, too."
. . . . .
The Gadfly was sitting beside a table covered
with flowers and ferns, staring absently at the
floor, with an open letter on his knee. A shaggy
collie dog, lying on a rug at his feet, raised its
head and growled as Gemma knocked at the open
door, and the Gadfly rose hastily and bowed in a
stiff, ceremonious way. His face had suddenly
grown hard and expressionless.
"You are too kind," he said in his most chilling
manner. "If you had let me know that you
wanted to speak to me I would have called on
you."
Seeing that he evidently wished her at the end
of the earth, Gemma hastened to state her business.
He bowed again and placed a chair for her.
"The committee wished me to call upon you,"
she began, "because there has been a certain difference
of opinion about your pamphlet."
"So I expected." He smiled and sat down opposite
to her, drawing a large vase of chrysanthemums
between his face and the light.
"Most of the members agreed that, however
much they may admire the pamphlet as a literary
composition, they do not think that in its present
form it is quite suitable for publication. They fear
that the vehemence of its tone may give offence,
and alienate persons whose help and support are
valuable to the party."
He pulled a chrysanthemum from the vase and
began slowly plucking off one white petal after
another. As her eyes happened to catch the
movement of the slim right hand dropping the
petals, one by one, an uncomfortable sensation
came over Gemma, as though she had somewhere
seen that gesture before.

"As a literary composition," he remarked in
his soft, cold voice, "it is utterly worthless, and
could be admired only by persons who know nothing
about literature. As for its giving offence,
that is the very thing I intended it to do."
"That I quite understand. The question is
whether you may not succeed in giving offence to
the wrong people."
He shrugged his shoulders and put a torn-off
petal between his teeth. "I think you are mistaken,"
he said. "The question is: For what purpose did
your committee invite me to come here? I understood,
to expose and ridicule the Jesuits. I fulfil my
obligation to the best of my ability."
"And I can assure you that no one has any
doubt as to either the ability or the good-will.
What the committee fears is that the liberal party
may take offence, and also that the town workmen
may withdraw their moral support. You may have
meant the pamphlet for an attack upon the Sanfedists:
but many readers will construe it as an
attack upon the Church and the new Pope; and
this, as a matter of political tactics, the
committee does not consider desirable."
"I begin to understand. So long as I keep to
the particular set of clerical gentlemen with whom
the party is just now on bad terms, I may speak
sooth if the fancy takes me; but directly I touch
upon the committee''s own pet priests--''truth''s a
dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out,
when the--Holy Father may stand by the fire
and-----'' Yes, the fool was right; I''d rather be
any kind of a thing than a fool. Of course I
must bow to the committee''s decision, but I
continue to think that it has pared its wit o'' both
sides and left--M-mon-signor M-m-montan-n-nelli
in the middle."
"Montanelli?" Gemma repeated. "I don''t understand
you. Do you mean the Bishop of Brisighella?"
"Yes; the new Pope has just created him a
Cardinal, you know. I have a letter about him
here. Would you care to hear it? The writer is
a friend of mine on the other side of the frontier."
"The Papal frontier?"
"Yes. This is what he writes----" He took
up the letter which had been in his hand when she
entered, and read aloud, suddenly beginning to
stammer violently:
"''Y-o-you will s-s-s-soon have the p-pleasure
of m-m-meeting one of our w-w-worst enemies,
C-cardinal Lorenzo M-montan-n-nelli, the
B-b-bishop of Brisig-g-hella. He int-t----''"
He broke off, paused a moment, and began
again, very slowly and drawling insufferably, but
no longer stammering:
"''He intends to visit Tuscany during the coming
month on a mission of reconciliation. He will
preach first in Florence, where he will stay for
about three weeks; then will go on to Siena and
Pisa, and return to the Romagna by Pistoja. He
ostensibly belongs to the liberal party in the
Church, and is a personal friend of the Pope and
Cardinal Feretti. Under Gregory he was out of
favour, and was kept out of sight in a little hole
in the Apennines. Now he has come suddenly to
the front. Really, of course, he is as much pulled
by Jesuit wires as any Sanfedist in the country.
This mission was suggested by some of the Jesuit
fathers. He is one of the most brilliant preachers
in the Church, and as mischievous in his way as
Lambruschini himself. His business is to keep
the popular enthusiasm over the Pope from subsiding,
and to occupy the public attention until
the Grand Duke has signed a project which the
agents of the Jesuits are preparing to lay before
him. What this project is I have been unable to
discover.'' Then, further on, it says: ''Whether
Montanelli understands for what purpose he is
being sent to Tuscany, or whether the Jesuits are
playing on him, I cannot make out. He is either
an uncommonly clever knave, or the biggest ass
that was ever foaled. The odd thing is that, so
far as I can discover, he neither takes bribes nor
keeps mistresses--the first time I ever came
across such a thing.''"
He laid down the letter and sat looking at her
with half-shut eyes, waiting, apparently, for her to
speak.
"Are you satisfied that your informant is correct
in his facts?" she asked after a moment.
"As to the irreproachable character of Monsignor
M-mon-t-tan-nelli''s private life? No; but
neither is he. As you will observe, he puts in the
s-s-saving clause: ''So far as I c-can discover----
"I was not speaking of that," she interposed
coldly, "but of the part about this mission."
"I can fully trust the writer. He is an old
friend of mine--one of my comrades of ''43, and he
is in a position which gives him exceptional
opportunities for finding out things of that kind."
"Some official at the Vatican," thought Gemma
quickly. "So that''s the kind of connections you
have? I guessed there was something of that sort."
"This letter is, of course, a private one," the
Gadfly went on; "and you understand that the
information is to be kept strictly to the members
of your committee."
"That hardly needs saying. Then about the
pamphlet: may I tell the committee that you consent
to make a few alterations and soften it a little,
or that----"
"Don''t you think the alterations may succeed
in spoiling the beauty of the ''literary composition,''
signora, as well as in reducing the vehemence
of the tone?"
"You are asking my personal opinion. What
I have come here to express is that of the committee
as a whole."
"Does that imply that y-y-you disagree with the
committee as a whole?" He had put the letter
into his pocket and was now leaning forward and
looking at her with an eager, concentrated expression
which quite changed the character of his
face. "You think----"
"If you care to know what I personally think
--I disagree with the majority on both points. I
do not at all admire the pamphlet from a literary
point of view, and I do think it true as a presentation
of facts and wise as a matter of tactics."
"That is------"
"I quite agree with you that Italy is being led
away by a will-o''-the-wisp and that all this enthusiasm
and rejoicing will probably land her in a
terrible bog; and I should be most heartily glad
to have that openly and boldly said, even at the
cost of offending or alienating some of our present
supporters. But as a member of a body the large
majority of which holds the opposite view, I cannot
insist upon my personal opinion; and I certainly
think that if things of that kind are to be
said at all, they should be said temperately and
quietly; not in the tone adopted in this pamphlet."
"Will you wait a minute while I look through
the manuscript?"
He took it up and glanced down the pages. A
dissatisfied frown settled on his face.
"Yes, of course, you are perfectly right. The
thing''s written like a cafe chantant skit, not a
political satire. But what''s a man to do? If I
write decently the public won''t understand it;
they will say it''s dull if it isn''t spiteful enough."
"Don''t you think spitefulness manages to be
dull when we get too much of it?"
He threw a keen, rapid glance at her, and burst
out laughing.
"Apparently the signora belongs to the dreadful
category of people who are always right!
Then if I yield to the temptation to be spiteful, I
may come in time to be as dull as Signora Grassini?
Heavens, what a fate! No, you needn''t
frown. I know you don''t like me, and I am going
to keep to business. What it comes to, then,
is practically this: if I cut out the personalities and
leave the essential part of the thing as it is, the
committee will very much regret that they can''t
take the responsibility of printing it. If I cut out
the political truth and make all the hard names
apply to no one but the party''s enemies, the committee
will praise the thing up to the skies, and
you and I will know it''s not worth printing.
Rather a nice point of metaphysics: Which is the
more desirable con***ion, to be printed and not be
worth it, or to be worth it and not be printed?
Well, signora?"
"I do not think you are tied to any such alternative.
I believe that if you were to cut out the
personalities the committee would consent to
print the pamphlet, though the majority would,
of course, not agree with it; and I am convinced
that it would be very useful. But you would have
to lay aside the spitefulness. If you are going to
say a thing the substance of which is a big pill for
your readers to swallow, there is no use in frightening
them at the beginning by the form."
He sighed and shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
"I submit, signora; but on one con***ion.
If you rob me of my laugh now, I must have it
out next time. When His Eminence, the irreproachable
Cardinal, turns up in Florence, neither
you nor your committee must object to my being
as spiteful as I like. It''s my due!"
He spoke in his lightest, coldest manner, pulling
the chrysanthemums out of their vase and
holding them up to watch the light through the
translucent petals. "What an unsteady hand he
has," she thought, seeing how the flowers shook
and quivered. "Surely he doesn''t drink!"
"You had better discuss the matter with the
other members of the committee," she said, rising.
"I cannot form any opinion as to what they will
think about it."
"And you?" He had risen too, and was leaning
against the table, pressing the flowers to his face
She hesitated. The question distressed her,
bringing up old and miserable associations. "I
--hardly know," she said at last. "Many years
ago I used to know something about Monsignor
Montanelli. He was only a canon at that time,
and Director of the theological seminary in the
province where I lived as a girl. I heard a great
deal about him from--someone who knew him
very intimately; and I never heard anything of him
that was not good. I believe that, in those days
at least, he was really a most remarkable man.
But that was long ago, and he may have changed.
Irresponsible power corrupts so many people."
The Gadfly raised his head from the flowers, and
looked at her with a steady face.
"At any rate," he said, "if Monsignor Montanelli
is not himself a scoundrel, he is a tool in
scoundrelly hands. It is all one to me which he
is--and to my friends across the frontier. A stone
in the path may have the best intentions, but it
must be kicked out of the path, for all that.
Allow me, signora!" He rang the bell, and, limping
to the door, opened it for her to pass out.
"It was very kind of you to call, signora. May
I send for a vettura? No? Good-afternoon, then!
Bianca, open the hall-door, please."
Gemma went out into the street, pondering
anxiously. "My friends across the frontier"--
who were they? And how was the stone to be
kicked out of the path? If with satire only, why
had he said it with such dangerous eyes?

CHAPTER IV.
MONSIGNOR MONTANELLI arrived in Florence
in the first week of October. His visit caused a
little flutter of excitement throughout the town.
He was a famous preacher and a representative of
the reformed Papacy; and people looked eagerly
to him for an exposition of the "new doctrine,"
the gospel of love and reconciliation which was to
cure the sorrows of Italy. The nomination of
Cardinal Gizzi to the Roman State Secretaryship
in place of the universally detested Lambruschini
had raised the public enthusiasm to its highest
pitch; and Montanelli was just the man who could
most easily sustain it. The irreproachable strictness
of his life was a phenomenon sufficiently rare
among the high dignitaries of the Roman Church
to attract the attention of people accustomed to
regard blackmailing, peculation, and disreputable
intrigues as almost invariable adjuncts to the
career of a prelate. Moreover, his talent as a
preacher was really great; and with his beautiful
voice and magnetic personality, he would in any
time and place have made his mark.
Grassini, as usual, strained every nerve to get
the newly arrived celebrity to his house; but
Montanelli was no easy game to catch. To all
invitations he replied with the same courteous but
positive refusal, saying that his health was bad and
his time fully occupied, and that he had neither
strength nor leisure for going into society.
"What omnivorous creatures those Grassinis
are!" Martini said contemptuously to Gemma as
they crossed the Signoria square one bright, cold
Sunday morning. "Did you notice the way
Grassini bowed when the Cardinal''s carriage drove
up? It''s all one to them who a man is, so long as
he''s talked about. I never saw such lion-hunters
in my life. Only last August it was the Gadfly;
now it''s Montanelli. I hope His Eminence feels
flattered at the attention; a precious lot of adventurers
have shared it with him."
They had been hearing Montanelli preach in
the Cathedral; and the great building had been so
thronged with eager listeners that Martini, fearing
a return of Gemma''s troublesome headaches,
had persuaded her to come away before the Mass
was over. The sunny morning, the first after a
week of rain, offered him an excuse for suggesting
a walk among the garden slopes by San Niccolo.
"No," she answered; "I should like a walk if
you have time; but not to the hills. Let us keep
along the Lung''Arno; Montanelli will pass on his
way back from church and I am like Grassini--
I want to see the notability."
"But you have just seen him."
"Not close. There was such a crush in the
Cathedral, and his back was turned to us when the
carriage passed. If we keep near to the bridge
we shall be sure to see him well--he is staying
on the Lung''Arno, you know."
"But what has given you such a sudden fancy
to see Montanelli? You never used to care about
famous preachers."
"It is not famous preachers; it is the man himself;
I want to see how much he has changed since I saw him last."
"When was that?"
"Two days after Arthur''s death."
Martini glanced at her anxiously. They had
come out on to the Lung''Arno, and she was staring
absently across the water, with a look on her
face that he hated to see.
"Gemma, dear," he said after a moment; "are
you going to let that miserable business haunt
you all your life? We have all made mistakes
when we were seventeen."
"We have not all killed our dearest friend when
we were seventeen," she answered wearily; and,
leaning her arm on the stone balustrade of the
bridge, looked down into the river. Martini held
his tongue; he was almost afraid to speak to her
when this mood was on her.
"I never look down at water without remembering,"
she said, slowly raising her eyes to his;
then with a nervous little shiver: "Let us walk
on a bit, Cesare; it is chilly for standing."
They crossed the bridge in silence and walked
on along the river-side. After a few minutes she
spoke again.
"What a beautiful voice that man has! There
is something about it that I have never heard in
any other human voice. I believe it is the secret
of half his influence."
"It is a wonderful voice," Martini assented,
catching at a subject of conversation which might
lead her away from the dreadful memory called up
by the river, "and he is, apart from his voice,
about the finest preacher I have ever heard. But
I believe the secret of his influence lies deeper than
that. It is the way his life stands out from that
of almost all the other prelates. I don''t know
whether you could lay your hand on one other
high dignitary in all the Italian Church--except
the Pope himself--whose reputation is so utterly
spotless. I remember, when I was in the Romagna
last year, passing through his diocese and
seeing those fierce mountaineers waiting in the
rain to get a glimpse of him or touch his dress.
He is venerated there almost as a saint; and that
means a good deal among the Romagnols, who
generally hate everything that wears a cassock. I
remarked to one of the old peasants,--as typical
a smuggler as ever I saw in my life,--that the
people seemed very much devoted to their bishop,
and he said: ''We don''t love bishops, they are
liars; we love Monsignor Montanelli. Nobody has
ever known him to tell a lie or do an unjust thing.''"
"I wonder," Gemma said, half to herself, "if he
knows the people think that about him."
"Why shouldn''t he know it? Do you think it
is not true?"
"I know it is not true."
"How do you know it?"
"Because he told me so."
"HE told you? Montanelli? Gemma, what do you mean?"
She pushed the hair back from her forehead and
turned towards him. They were standing still
again, he leaning on the balustrade and she slowly
drawing lines on the pavement with the point of
her umbrella.
"Cesare, you and I have been friends for all
these years, and I have never told you what really
happened about Arthur."
"There is no need to tell me, dear," he broke
in hastily; "I know all about it already."
"Giovanni told you?"
"Yes, when he was dying. He told me about
it one night when I was sitting up with him. He
said---- Gemma, dear, I had better tell you the
truth, now we have begun talking about it--he
said that you were always brooding over that
wretched story, and he begged me to be as good
a friend to you as I could and try to keep you
from thinking of it. And I have tried to, dear,
though I may not have succeeded--I have,
indeed."
"I know you have," she answered softly, raising
her eyes for a moment; "I should have been
badly off without your friendship. But--Giovanni
did not tell you about Monsignor Montanelli, then?"
"No, I didn''t know that he had anything to
do with it. What he told me was about--all that
affair with the spy, and about----"
"About my striking Arthur and his drowning
himself. Well, I will tell you about Montanelli."
They turned back towards the bridge over which
the Cardinal''s carriage would have to pass.
Gemma looked out steadily across the water as
she spoke.
"In those days Montanelli was a canon; he was
Director of the Theological Seminary at Pisa, and
used to give Arthur lessons in philosophy and read
with him after he went up to the Sapienza. They
were perfectly devoted to each other; more like
two lovers than teacher and pupil. Arthur almost
worshipped the ground that Montanelli walked on,
and I remember his once telling me that if he lost
his ''Padre''--he always used to call Montanelli so
--he should go and drown himself. Well, then
you know what happened about the spy. The
next day, my father and the Burtons--Arthur''s
step-brothers, most detestable people--spent the
whole day dragging the Darsena basin for the
body; and I sat in my room alone and thought of
what I had done----"
She paused a moment, and went on again:
"Late in the evening my father came into my
room and said: ''Gemma, child, come downstairs;
there''s a man I want you to see.'' And when we
went down there was one of the students belonging
to the group sitting in the consulting room,
all white and shaking; and he told us about Giovanni''s
second letter coming from the prison to
say that they had heard from the jailer about
Cardi, and that Arthur had been tricked in the
confessional. I remember the student saying to
me: ''It is at least some consolation that we know
he was innocent'' My father held my hands and
tried to comfort me; he did not know then about
the blow. Then I went back to my room and
sat there all night alone. In the morning my
father went out again with the Burtons to see the
harbour dragged. They had some hope of finding
the body there."
"It was never found, was it?"
"No; it must have got washed out to sea; but
they thought there was a chance. I was alone in
my room and the servant came up to say that a
''reverendissimo padre'' had called and she had
told him my father was at the docks and he had
gone away. I knew it must be Montanelli; so I
ran out at the back door and caught him up at
the garden gate. When I said: ''Canon Montanelli,
I want to speak to you,'' he just stopped and
waited silently for me to speak. Oh, Cesare, if
you had seen his face--it haunted me for months
afterwards! I said: ''I am Dr. Warren''s daughter,
and I have come to tell you that it is I who have
killed Arthur.'' I told him everything, and he
stood and listened, like a figure cut in stone, till
I had finished; then he said: ''Set your heart at
rest, my child; it is I that am a murderer, not you.
I deceived him and he found it out.'' And with
that he turned and went out at the gate without
another word."
"And then?"
"I don''t know what happened to him after that;
I heard the same evening that he had fallen down
in the street in a kind of fit and had been carried
into a house near the docks; but that is all
I know. My father did everything he could for
me; when I told him about it he threw up
his practice and took me away to England at
once, so that I should never hear anything that
could remind me. He was afraid I should end in
the water, too; and indeed I believe I was near it
at one time. But then, you know, when we found
out that my father had cancer I was obliged to
come to myself--there was no one else to nurse
him. And after he died I was left with the little
ones on my hands until my elder brother was able
to give them a home. Then there was Giovanni.
Do you know, when he came to England we were
almost afraid to meet each other with that frightful
memory between us. He was so bitterly
remorseful for his share in it all--that unhappy
letter he wrote from prison. But I believe,
really, it was our common trouble that drew us
together."
Martini smiled and shook his head.
"It may have been so on your side," he said;
"but Giovanni had made up his mind from the
first time he ever saw you. I remember his coming
back to Milan after that first visit to Leghorn
and raving about you to me till I was perfectly
sick of hearing of the English Gemma. I thought
I should hate you. Ah! there it comes!"
The carriage crossed the bridge and drove up to
a large house on the Lung''Arno. Montanelli was
leaning back on the cushions as if too tired to
care any longer for the enthusiastic crowd which
had collected round the door to catch a glimpse of
him. The inspired look that his face had worn
in the Cathedral had faded quite away and the
sunlight showed the lines of care and fatigue.
When he had alighted and passed, with the heavy,
spiritless tread of weary and heart-sick old age,
into the house, Gemma turned away and walked
slowly to the bridge. Her face seemed for a moment
to reflect the withered, hopeless look of his.
Martini walked beside her in silence.
"I have so often wondered," she began again
after a little pause; "what he meant about the
deception. It has sometimes occurred to me----"
"Yes?"
"Well, it is very strange; there was the
most extraordinary personal resemblance between
them."
"Between whom?"
"Arthur and Montanelli. It was not only I
who noticed it. And there was something mysterious
in the relationship between the members
of that household. Mrs. Burton, Arthur''s mother,
was one of the sweetest women I ever knew. Her
face had the same spiritual look as Arthur''s, and
I believe they were alike in character, too. But
she always seemed half frightened, like a detected
criminal; and her step-son''s wife used to treat
her as no decent person treats a dog. And then
Arthur himself was such a startling contrast to
all those vulgar Burtons. Of course, when one
is a child one takes everything for granted; but
looking back on it afterwards I have often wondered
whether Arthur was really a Burton."
"Possibly he found out something about his
mother--that may easily have been the cause of
his death, not the Cardi affair at all," Martini
interposed, offering the only consolation he could
think of at the moment. Gemma shook her
head.
"If you could have seen his face after I struck
him, Cesare, you would not think that. It may
be all true about Montanelli--very likely it is--
but what I have done I have done."
They walked on a little way without speaking,
"My dear," Martini said at last; "if there were
any way on earth to undo a thing that is once
done, it would be worth while to brood over our
old mistakes; but as it is, let the dead bury their
dead. It is a terrible story, but at least the
poor lad is out of it now, and luckier than some
of those that are left--the ones that are in exile
and in prison. You and I have them to think of,
we have no right to eat out our hearts for the
dead. Remember what your own Shelley says:
''The past is Death''s, the future is thine own.''
Take it, while it is still yours, and fix your mind,
not on what you may have done long ago to hurt,
but on what you can do now to help."
In his earnestness he had taken her hand. He
dropped it suddenly and drew back at the sound
of a soft, cold, drawling voice behind him.
"Monsignor Montan-n-nelli," murmured this
languid voice, "is undoubtedly all you say, my
dear doctor. In fact, he appears to be so much
too good for this world that he ought to be politely
escorted into the next. I am sure he would
cause as great a sensation there as he has done
here; there are p-p-probably many old-established
ghosts who have never seen such a thing as an
honest cardinal. And there is nothing that ghosts
love as they do novelties----"
"How do you know that?" asked Dr. Riccardo''s
voice in a tone of ill-suppressed irritation.
"From Holy Writ, my dear sir. If the Gospel
is to be trusted, even the most respectable of all
Ghosts had a f-f-fancy for capricious alliances.
Now, honesty and c-c-cardinals--that seems to
me a somewhat capricious alliance, and rather an
uncomfortable one, like shrimps and liquorice.
Ah, Signor Martini, and Signora Bolla! Lovely
weather after the rain, is it not? Have you been
to hear the n-new Savonarola, too?"
Martini turned round sharply. The Gadfly,
with a cigar in his mouth and a hot-house flower
in his buttonhole, was holding out to him a slender,
carefully-gloved hand. With the sunlight reflected
in his immaculate boots and glancing back
from the water on to his smiling face, he looked
to Martini less lame and more conceited than
usual. They were shaking hands, affably on the
one side and rather sulkily on the other, when
Riccardo hastily exclaimed:
"I am afraid Signora Bolla is not well!"
She was so pale that her face looked almost livid
under the shadow of her bonnet, and the ribbon
at her throat fluttered perceptibly from the violent
beating of the heart.
"I will go home," she said faintly.
A cab was called and Martini got in with her
to see her safely home. As the Gadfly bent down
to arrange her cloak, which was hanging over the
wheel, he raised his eyes suddenly to her face, and
Martini saw that she shrank away with a look of
something like terror.
"Gemma, what is the matter with you?" he
asked, in English, when they had started. "What
did that scoundrel say to you?"
"Nothing, Cesare; it was no fault of his. I--
I--had a fright----"
"A fright?"
"Yes; I fancied----" She put one hand over
her eyes, and he waited silently till she should
recover her self-command. Her face was already
regaining its natural colour.
"You are quite right," she said at last, turning
to him and speaking in her usual voice; "it is
worse than useless to look back at a horrible past.
It plays tricks with one''s nerves and makes one
imagine all sorts of impossible things. We will
NEVER talk about that subject again, Cesare, or I
shall see fantastic likenesses to Arthur in every
face I meet. It is a kind of hallucination, like
a nightmare in broad daylight. Just now, when
that odious little fop came up, I fancied it was
Arthur."

CHAPTER V.
THE Gadfly certainly knew how to make personal
enemies. He had arrived in Florence in
August, and by the end of October three-fourths
of the committee which had invited him shared
Martini''s opinion. His savage attacks upon Montanelli
had annoyed even his admirers; and Galli
himself, who at first had been inclined to uphold
everything the witty satirist said or did, began to
acknowledge with an aggrieved air that Montanelli
had better have been left in peace. "Decent
cardinals are none so plenty. One might treat
them politely when they do turn up."
The only person who, apparently, remained
quite indifferent to the storm of caricatures and
pasquinades was Montanelli himself. It seemed,
as Martini said, hardly worth while to expend
one''s energy in ridiculing a man who took it so
good-humouredly. It was said in the town that
Montanelli, one day when the Archbishop of Florence
was dining with him, had found in the room
one of the Gadfly''s bitter personal lampoons
against himself, had read it through and handed
the paper to the Archbishop, remarking: "That
is rather cleverly put, is it not?"
One day there appeared in the town a leaflet,
headed: "The Mystery of the Annunciation."
Even had the author omitted his now familiar
signature, a sketch of a gadfly with spread wings,
the bitter, trenchant style would have left in the
minds of most readers no doubt as to his identity.
The skit was in the form of a dialogue between
Tuscany as the Virgin Mary, and Montanelli as the
angel who, bearing the lilies of purity and crowned
with the olive branch of peace, was announcing
the advent of the Jesuits. The whole thing was
full of offensive personal allusions and hints of the
most risky nature, and all Florence felt the satire
to be both ungenerous and unfair. And yet all
Florence laughed. There was something so irresistible
in the Gadfly''s grave absur***ies that those
who most disapproved of and disliked him laughed
as immoderately at all his squibs as did his warmest
partisans. Repulsive in tone as the leaflet was,
it left its trace upon the popular feeling of the
town. Montanelli''s personal reputation stood too
high for any lampoon, however witty, seriously to
injure it, but for a moment the tide almost turned
against him. The Gadfly had known where to
sting; and, though eager crowds still collected
before the Cardinal''s house to see him enter or
leave his carriage, ominous cries of "Jesuit!" and
"Sanfedist spy!" often mingled with the cheers
and benedictions.
But Montanelli had no lack of supporters. Two
days after the publication of the skit, the Churchman,
a leading clerical paper, brought out a
brilliant article, called: "An Answer to ''The
Mystery of the Annunciation,''" and signed: "A
Son of the Church." It was an impassioned defence
of Montanelli against the Gadfly''s slanderous
imputations. The anonymous writer, after
expounding, with great eloquence and fervour, the
doctrine of peace on earth and good will towards
men, of which the new Pontiff was the evangelist,
concluded by challenging the Gadfly to prove a
single one of his assertions, and solemnly appealing
to the public not to believe a contemptible
slanderer. Both the cogency of the article as a
bit of special pleading and its merit as a literary
composition were sufficiently far above the average
to attract much attention in the town, especially
as not even the e***or of the newspaper could
guess the author''s identity. The article was soon
reprinted separately in pamphlet form; and the
"anonymous defender" was discussed in every
coffee-shop in Florence.
The Gadfly responded with a violent attack on
the new Pontificate and all its supporters, especially
on Montanelli, who, he cautiously hinted, had
probably consented to the panegyric on himself.
To this the anonymous defender again replied in
the Churchman with an indignant denial. During
the rest of Montanelli''s stay the controversy raging
between the two writers occupied more of the
public attention than did even the famous preacher
himself.
Some members of the liberal party ventured to
remonstrate with the Gadfly about the unnecessary
malice of his tone towards Montanelli; but
they did not get much satisfaction out of him.
He only smiled affably and answered with a languid
little stammer: "R-really, gentlemen, you are
rather unfair. I expressly stipulated, when I gave
in to Signora Bolla, that I should be allowed a
l-l-little chuckle all to myself now. It is so nominated
in the bond!"
At the end of October Montanelli returned to
his see in the Romagna, and, before leaving Florence,
preached a farewell sermon in which he spoke
of the controversy, gently deprecating the vehemence
of both writers and begging his unknown
defender to set an example of tolerance by closing
a useless and unseemly war of words. On the
following day the Churchman contained a notice
that, at Monsignor Montanelli''s publicly expressed
desire, "A Son of the Church" would withdraw
from the controversy.
The last word remained with the Gadfly. He
issued a little leaflet, in which he declared himself
disarmed and converted by Montanelli''s Christian
meekness and ready to weep tears of reconciliation
upon the neck of the first Sanfedist he met. "I
am even willing," he concluded; "to embrace my
anonymous challenger himself; and if my readers
knew, as his Eminence and I know, what that
implies and why he remains anonymous, they
would believe in the sincerity of my conversion."
In the latter part of November he announced to
the literary committee that he was going for a
fortnight''s holiday to the seaside. He went, apparently,
to Leghorn; but Dr. Riccardo, going
there soon after and wishing to speak to him,
searched the town for him in vain. On the 5th of
December a political demonstration of the most
extreme character burst out in the States of the
Church, along the whole chain of the Apennines;
and people began to guess the reason of the Gadfly''s
sudden fancy to take his holidays in the depth
of winter. He came back to Florence when the
riots had been quelled, and, meeting Riccardo in
the street, remarked affably:
"I hear you were inquiring for me in Leghorn;
I was staying in Pisa. What a pretty old town
it is! There''s something quite Arcadian about it."
In Christmas week he attended an afternoon
meeting of the literary committee which was held
in Dr. Riccardo''s lodgings near the Porta alla
Croce. The meeting was a full one, and when he
came in, a little late, with an apologetic bow and
smile, there seemed to be no seat empty. Riccardo
rose to fetch a chair from the next room,
but the Gadfly stopped him. "Don''t trouble
about it," he said; "I shall be quite comfortable
here"; and crossing the room to a window beside
which Gemma had placed her chair, he sat down
on the sill, leaning his head indolently back
against the shutter.
As he looked down at Gemma, smiling with
half-shut eyes, in the subtle, sphinx-like way that
gave him the look of a Leonardo da Vinci portrait,
the instinctive distrust with which he inspired her
deepened into a sense of unreasoning fear.
The proposal under discussion was that a pamphlet
be issued setting forth the committee''s views
on the dearth with which Tuscany was threatened
and the measures which should be taken to meet
it. The matter was a somewhat difficult one to
decide, because, as usual, the committee''s views
upon the subject were much divided. The more
advanced section, to which Gemma, Martini, and
Riccardo belonged, was in favour of an energetic
appeal to both government and public to take adequate
measures at once for the relief of the peasantry.
The moderate division--including, of
course, Grassini--feared that an over-emphatic
tone might irritate rather than convince the
ministry.
"It is all very well, gentlemen, to want the
people helped at once," he said, looking round
upon the red-hot radicals with his calm and pitying
air. "We most of us want a good many things
that we are not likely to get; but if we start with
the tone you propose to adopt, the government
is very likely not to begin any relief measures
at all till there is actual famine. If we could
only induce the ministry to make an inquiry
into the state of the crops it would be a step in
advance."
Galli, in his corner by the stove, jumped up to
answer his enemy.
"A step in advance--yes, my dear sir; but if
there''s going to be a famine, it won''t wait for us
to advance at that pace. The people might all
starve before we got to any actual relief."
"It would be interesting to know----" Sacconi
began; but several voices interrupted him.
"Speak up; we can''t hear!"
"I should think not, with such an infernal row
in the street," said Galli, irritably. "Is that window
shut, Riccardo? One can''t hear one''s self speak!"
Gemma looked round. "Yes," she said, "the
window is quite shut. I think there is a variety
show, or some such thing, passing."
The sounds of shouting and laughter, of the
tinkling of bells and trampling of feet, resounded
from the street below, mixed with the braying of
a villainous brass band and the unmerciful banging
of a drum.
"It can''t be helped these few days," said Riccardo;
"we must expect noise at Christmas time. What were you
saying, Sacconi?"
"I said it would be interesting to hear what is
thought about the matter in Pisa and Leghorn.
Perhaps Signor Rivarez can tell us something; he
has just come from there."
The Gadfly did not answer. He was staring out
of the window and appeared not to have heard
what had been said.
"Signor Rivarez!" said Gemma. She was the
only person sitting near to him, and as he remained
silent she bent forward and touched him on the
arm. He slowly turned his face to her, and she
started as she saw its fixed and awful immobility.
For a moment it was like the face of a corpse; then
the lips moved in a strange, lifeless way.
"Yes," he whispered; "a variety show."
Her first instinct was to shield him from the
curiosity of the others. Without understanding
what was the matter with him, she realized that
some frightful fancy or hallucination had seized
upon him, and that, for the moment, he was at
its mercy, body and soul. She rose quickly and,
standing between him and the company, threw
the window open as if to look out. No one but
herself had seen his face.
In the street a travelling circus was passing,
with mountebanks on donkeys and harlequins in
parti-coloured dresses. The crowd of holiday
masqueraders, laughing and shoving, was exchanging
jests and showers of paper ribbon with the
clowns and flinging little bags of sugar-plums to
the columbine, who sat in her car, tricked out in
tinsel and feathers, with artificial curls on her
forehead and an artificial smile on her painted lips.
Behind the car came a motley string of figures--
street Arabs, beggars, clowns turning somersaults,
and costermongers hawking their wares. They
were jostling, pelting, and applauding a figure
which at first Gemma could not see for the pushing
and swaying of the crowd. The next moment,
however, she saw plainly what it was--a
hunchback, dwarfish and ugly, grotesquely attired
in a fool''s dress, with paper cap and bells. He
evidently belonged to the strolling company, and
was amusing the crowd with hideous grimaces and
contortions.

"What is going on out there?" asked Riccardo,
approaching the window. "You seem very much
interested."
He was a little surprised at their keeping the
whole committee waiting to look at a strolling
company of mountebanks. Gemma turned round.
"It is nothing interesting," she said; "only a
variety show; but they made such a noise that I
thought it must be something else."
She was standing with one hand upon the
window-sill, and suddenly felt the Gadfly''s cold
fingers press the hand with a passionate clasp.
"Thank you!" he whispered softly; and then,
closing the window, sat down again upon the sill.
"I''m afraid," he said in his airy manner, "that
I have interrupted you, gentlemen. I was l-looking
at the variety show; it is s-such a p-pretty sight."
"Sacconi was asking you a question," said Martini
gruffly. The Gadfly''s behaviour seemed to
him an absurd piece of affectation, and he was
annoyed that Gemma should have been tactless
enough to follow his example. It was not like her.
The Gadfly disclaimed all knowledge of the state
of feeling in Pisa, explaining that he had been
there "only on a holiday." He then plunged at
once into an animated discussion, first of agricultural
prospects, then of the pamphlet question;
and continued pouring out a flood of stammering
talk till the others were quite tired. He seemed
to find some feverish delight in the sound of his
own voice.
When the meeting ended and the members of
the committee rose to go, Riccardo came up to
Martini.
"Will you stop to dinner with me? Fabrizi
and Sacconi have promised to stay."
"Thanks; but I was going to see Signora Bolla
home."
"Are you really afraid I can''t get home by
myself?" she asked, rising and putting on her
wrap. "Of course he will stay with you, Dr. Riccardo;
it''s good for him to get a change. He doesn''t go out
half enough."
"If you will allow me, I will see you home," the
Gadfly interposed; "I am going in that direction."
"If you really are going that way----"
"I suppose you won''t have time to drop in here
in the course of the evening, will you, Rivarez?"
asked Riccardo, as he opened the door for them.
The Gadfly looked back over his shoulder,
laughing. "I, my dear fellow? I''m going to see
the variety show!"
"What a strange creature that is; and what an
odd affection for mountebanks!" said Riccardo,
coming back to his visitors.
"Case of a fellow-feeling, I should think," said
Martini; "the man''s a mountebank himself, if ever
I saw one."
"I wish I could think he was only that," Fabrizi
interposed, with a grave face. "If he is a mountebank
I am afraid he''s a very dangerous one."
"Dangerous in what way?"
"Well, I don''t like those mysterious little pleasure
trips that he is so fond of taking. This is the
third time, you know; and I don''t believe he has
been in Pisa at all."
"I suppose it is almost an open secret that it''s
into the mountains he goes," said Sacconi. "He
has hardly taken the trouble to deny that he is
still in relations with the smugglers he got to
know in the Savigno affair, and it''s quite natural
he should take advantage of their friendship to
get his leaflets across the Papal frontier."
"For my part," said Riccardo; "what I wanted
to talk to you about is this very question. It
occurred to me that we could hardly do better than
ask Rivarez to undertake the management of our
own smuggling. That press at Pistoja is very
inefficiently managed, to my thinking; and the
way the leaflets are taken across, always rolled in
those everlasting cigars, is more than primitive."
"It has answered pretty well up till now," said
Martini contumaciously. He was getting wearied
of hearing Galli and Riccardo always put the Gadfly
forward as a model to copy, and inclined to
think that the world had gone well enough before
this "lackadaisical buccaneer" turned up to set
everyone to rights.
"It has answered so far well that we have been
satisfied with it for want of anything better;
but you know there have been plenty of arrests and
confiscations. Now I believe that if Rivarez undertook
the business for us, there would be less of that."
"Why do you think so?"
"In the first place, the smugglers look upon
us as strangers to do business with, or as sheep to
fleece, whereas Rivarez is their personal friend,
very likely their leader, whom they look up to and
trust. You may be sure every smuggler in the
Apennines will do for a man who was in the Savigno
revolt what he will not do for us. In the
next place, there''s hardly a man among us that
knows the mountains as Rivarez does. Remember,
he has been a fugitive among them, and knows
the smugglers'' paths by heart. No smuggler
would dare to cheat him, even if he wished to, and
no smuggler could cheat him if he dared to try."
"Then is your proposal that we should ask him
to take over the whole management of our literature
on the other side of the frontier--distribution,
addresses, hiding-places, everything--or simply
that we should ask him to put the things across
for us?"
"Well, as for addresses and hiding-places, he
probably knows already all the ones that we have
and a good many more that we have not. I don''t
suppose we should be able to teach him much in
that line. As for distribution, it''s as the others
prefer, of course. The important question, to my
mind, is the actual smuggling itself. Once the
books are safe in Bologna, it''s a comparatively
simple matter to circulate them."
"For my part," said Martini, "I am against the
plan. In the first place, all this about his skilfulness
is mere conjecture; we have not actually seen
him engaged in frontier work and do not know
whether he keeps his head in critical moments."
"Oh, you needn''t have any doubt of that!"
Riccardo put in. "The history of the Savigno
affair proves that he keeps his head."
"And then," Martini went on; "I do not feel
at all inclined, from what little I know of Rivarez,
to intrust him with all the party''s secrets. He
seems to me feather-brained and theatrical. To
give the whole management of a party''s contraband
work into a man''s hands is a serious matter.
Fabrizi, what do you think?"
"If I had only such objections as yours, Martini,"
replied the professor, "I should certainly
waive them in the case of a man really possessing,
as Rivarez undoubtedly does, all the qualifications
Riccardo speaks of. For my part, I have not the
slightest doubt as to either his courage, his honesty,
or his presence of mind; and that he knows
both mountains and mountaineers we have had
ample proof. But there is another objection. I
do not feel sure that it is only for the smuggling
of pamphlets he goes into the mountains. I have
begun to doubt whether he has not another purpose.
This is, of course, entirely between ourselves.
It is a mere suspicion. It seems to me
just possible that he is in connexion with some
one of the ''sects,'' and perhaps with the most dangerous
of them."
"Which one do you mean--the ''Red Girdles''?"
"No; the ''Occoltellatori.''"
"The ''Knifers''! But that is a little body of
outlaws--peasants, most of them, with neither
education nor political experience."
"So were the insurgents of Savigno; but they
had a few educated men as leaders, and this little
society may have the same. And remember, it''s
pretty well known that most of the members of
those more violent sects in the Romagna are survivors
of the Savigno affair, who found themselves
too weak to fight the Churchmen in open insurrection,
and so have fallen back on assassination.
Their hands are not strong enough for guns, and
they take to knives instead."
"But what makes you suppose Rivarez to be
connected with them?"
"I don''t suppose, I merely suspect. In any
case, I think we had better find out for certain
before we intrust our smuggling to him. If he
attempted to do both kinds of work at once he
would injure our party most terribly; he would
simply destroy its reputation and accomplish
nothing. However, we will talk of that another
time. I wanted to speak to you about the news
from Rome. It is said that a commission is to
be appointed to draw up a project for a municipal
constitution."

CHAPTER VI.
GEMMA and the Gadfly walked silently along
the Lung''Arno. His feverish talkativeness seemed
to have quite spent itself; he had hardly spoken
a word since they left Riccardo''s door, and
Gemma was heartily glad of his silence. She
always felt embarrassed in his company, and to-day
more so than usual, for his strange behaviour
at the committee meeting had greatly perplexed
her.
By the Uffizi palace he suddenly stopped and
turned to her.
"Are you tired?"
"No; why?"
"Nor especially busy this evening?"
"No."
"I want to ask a favour of you; I want you to
come for a walk with me."
"Where to?"
"Nowhere in particular; anywhere you like."
"But what for?"
He hesitated.
"I--can''t tell you--at least, it''s very difficult;
but please come if you can."
He raised his eyes suddenly from the ground,
and she saw how strange their expression was.
"There is something the matter with you," she
said gently. He pulled a leaf from the flower in
his button-hole, and began tearing it to pieces.
Who was it that he was so oddly like? Someone
who had that same trick of the fingers and hurried,
nervous gesture.
"I am in trouble," he said, looking down at his
hands and speaking in a hardly audible voice. "I
--don''t want to be alone this evening. Will you
come?"
"Yes, certainly, unless you would rather go to
my lodgings."
"No; come and dine with me at a restaurant.
There''s one on the Signoria. Please don''t refuse,
now; you''ve promised!"
They went into a restaurant, where he ordered
dinner, but hardly touched his own share, and
remained obstinately silent, crumbling the bread
over the cloth, and fidgeting with the fringe of
his table napkin. Gemma felt thoroughly uncomfortable,
and began to wish she had refused to
come; the silence was growing awkward; yet she
could not begin to make small-talk with a person
who seemed to have forgotten her presence. At
last he looked up and said abruptly:
"Would you like to see the variety show?"
She stared at him in astonishment. What had
he got into his head about variety shows?
"Have you ever seen one?" he asked before she
had time to speak.
"No; I don''t think so. I didn''t suppose they
were interesting."
"They are very interesting. I don''t think anyone
can study the life of the people without seeing
them. Let us go back to the Porta alla Croce."
When they arrived the mountebanks had set up
their tent beside the town gate, and an abominable
scraping of fiddles and banging of drums
announced that the performance had begun.
The entertainment was of the roughest kind.
A few clowns, harlequins, and acrobats, a circus-rider
jumping through hoops, the painted columbine,
and the hunchback performing various dull
and foolish antics, represented the entire force of
the company. The jokes were not, on the whole,
coarse or offensive; but they were very tame and
stale, and there was a depressing flatness about
the whole thing. The audience laughed and
clapped from their innate Tuscan courtesy; but
the only part which they seemed really to enjoy
was the performance of the hunchback, in which
Gemma could find nothing either witty or skilful.
It was merely a series of grotesque and hideous
contortions, which the spectators mimicked, holding
up children on their shoulders that the little
ones might see the "ugly man."
"Signor Rivarez, do you really think this
attractive?" said Gemma, turning to the Gadfly,
who was standing beside her, his arm round one
of the wooden posts of the tent. "It seems to
me----"
She broke off and remained looking at him
silently. Except when she had stood with Montanelli
at the garden gate in Leghorn, she had
never seen a human face express such fathomless,
hopeless misery. She thought of Dante''s hell as
she watched him.
Presently the hunchback, receiving a kick from
one of the clowns, turned a somersault and tumbled
in a grotesque heap outside the ring. A dialogue
between two clowns began, and the Gadfly
seemed to wake out of a dream.
"Shall we go?" he asked; "or would you like
to see more?"
"I would rather go."
They left the tent, and walked across the dark
green to the river. For a few moments neither
spoke.
"What did you think of the show?" the Gadfly
asked presently.
"I thought it rather a dreary business; and
part of it seemed to me positively unpleasant."
"Which part?"
"Well, all those grimaces and contortions.
They are simply ugly; there is nothing clever
about them."
"Do you mean the hunchback''s performance?"
Remembering his peculiar sensitiveness on the
subject of his own physical defects, she had
avoided mentioning this particular bit of the
entertainment; but now that he had touched upon
the subject himself, she answered: "Yes; I did
not like that part at all."
"That was the part the people enjoyed most."
"I dare say; and that is just the worst thing
about it."
"Because it was inartistic?"
"N-no; it was all inartistic. I meant--because
it was cruel."
He smiled.
"Cruel? Do you mean to the hunchback?"
"I mean---- Of course the man himself was
quite indifferent; no doubt, it is to him just a way
of getting a living, like the circus-rider''s way or
the columbine''s. But the thing makes one feel
unhappy. It is humiliating; it is the degradation
of a human being."
"He probably is not any more degraded than
he was to start with. Most of us are degraded in
one way or another."
"Yes; but this--I dare say you will think it
an absurd prejudice; but a human body, to me, is
a sacred thing; I don''t like to see it treated
irreverently and made hideous."
"And a human soul?"
He had stopped short, and was standing with
one hand on the stone balustrade of the embankment,
looking straight at her.
"A soul?" she repeated, stopping in her turn
to look at him in wonder.
He flung out both hands with a sudden, passionate gesture.
"Has it never occurred to you that that miserable
clown may have a soul--a living, struggling,
human soul, tied down into that crooked hulk of
a body and forced to slave for it? You that are so
tender-hearted to everything--you that pity the
body in its fool''s dress and bells--have you never
thought of the wretched soul that has not even
motley to cover its horrible nakedness? Think
of it shivering with cold, stilled with shame and
misery, before all those people--feeling their jeers
that cut like a whip--their laughter, that burns
like red-hot iron on the bare flesh! Think of it
looking round--so helpless before them all--for
the mountains that will not fall on it--for the rocks
that have not the heart to cover it--envying the
rats that can creep into some hole in the earth
and hide; and remember that a soul is dumb--it
has no voice to cry out--it must endure, and endure,
and endure. Oh! I''m talking nonsense!
Why on earth don''t you laugh? You have no
sense of humour!"
Slowly and in dead silence she turned and
walked on along the river side. During the whole
evening it had not once occurred to her to connect
his trouble, whatever it might be, with the
variety show; and now that some dim picture of
his inner life had been revealed to her by this sudden
outburst, she could not find, in her overwhelming
pity for him, one word to say. He
walked on beside her, with his head turned away,
and looked into the water.
"I want you, please, to understand," he began
suddenly, turning to her with a defiant air, "that
everything I have just been saying to you is pure
imagination. I''m rather given to romancing, but
I don''t like people to take it seriously."
She made no answer, and they walked on in
silence. As they passed by the gateway of the
Uffizi, he crossed the road and stooped down
over a dark bundle that was lying against the
railings.
"What is the matter, little one?" he asked,
more gently than she had ever heard him speak.
"Why don''t you go home?"
The bundle moved, and answered something in
a low, moaning voice. Gemma came across to
look, and saw a child of about six years old,
ragged and dirty, crouching on the pavement like a
frightened animal. The Gadfly was bending down
with his hand on the unkempt head.
"What is it?" he said, stooping lower to catch
the unintelligible answer. "You ought to go
home to bed; little boys have no business out of
doors at night; you''ll be quite frozen! Give me
your hand and jump up like a man! Where do
you live?"
He took the child''s arm to raise him. The result
was a sharp scream and a quick shrinking away.

"Why, what is it?" the Gadfly asked, kneeling
down on the pavement. "Ah! Signora, look
here!"
The child''s shoulder and jacket were covered
with blood.
"Tell me what has happened?" the Gadfly
went on caressingly. "It wasn''t a fall, was it?
No? Someone''s been beating you? I thought
so! Who was it?"
"My uncle."
"Ah, yes! And when was it?"
"This morning. He was drunk, and I--I----"
"And you got in his way--was that it? You
shouldn''t get in people''s way when they are
drunk, little man; they don''t like it. What shall
we do with this poor mite, signora? Come here
to the light, sonny, and let me look at that
shoulder. Put your arm round my neck; I won''t
hurt you. There we are!"
He lifted the boy in his arms, and, carrying him
across the street, set him down on the wide stone
balustrade. Then, taking out a pocket-knife, he
deftly ripped up the torn sleeve, supporting the
child''s head against his breast, while Gemma held
the injured arm. The shoulder was badly bruised
and grazed, and there was a deep gash on the arm.
"That''s an ugly cut to give a mite like you,"
said the Gadfly, fastening his handkerchief round
the wound to prevent the jacket from rubbing
against it. "What did he do it with?"
"The shovel. I went to ask him to give me a
soldo to get some polenta at the corner shop, and
he hit me with the shovel."
The Gadfly shuddered. "Ah!" he said softly,
"that hurts; doesn''t it, little one?"
"He hit me with the shovel--and I ran away--
I ran away--because he hit me."
"And you''ve been wandering about ever since,
without any dinner?"
Instead of answering, the child began to sob
violently. The Gadfly lifted him off the balustrade.
"There, there! We''ll soon set all that straight.
I wonder if we can get a cab anywhere. I''m afraid
they''ll all be waiting by the theatre; there''s a
grand performance going on to-night. I am sorry
to drag you about so, signora; but----"
"I would rather come with you. You may
want help. Do you think you can carry him so
far? Isn''t he very heavy?"
"Oh, I can manage, thank you."
At the theatre door they found only a few cabs
waiting, and these were all engaged. The performance
was over, and most of the audience had
gone. Zita''s name was printed in large letters on
the wall-placards; she had been dancing in the
ballet. Asking Gemma to wait for him a moment,
the Gadfly went round to the performers'' entrance,
and spoke to an attendant.
"Has Mme. Reni gone yet?"
"No, sir," the man answered, staring blankly
at the spectacle of a well-dressed gentleman carrying
a ragged street child in his arms, "Mme.
Reni is just coming out, I think; her carriage is
waiting for her. Yes; there she comes."
Zita descended the stairs, leaning on the arm of
a young cavalry officer. She looked superbly
handsome, with an opera cloak of flame-coloured
velvet thrown over her evening dress, and a great
fan of ostrich plumes hanging from her waist. In
the entry she stopped short, and, drawing her
hand away from the officer''s arm, approached the
Gadfly in amazement.
"Felice!" she exclaimed under her breath,
"what HAVE you got there?"
"I have picked up this child in the street. It is
hurt and starving; and I want to get it home as
quickly as possible. There is not a cab to be got
anywhere, so I want to have your carriage."
"Felice! you are not going to take a horrid
beggar-child into your rooms! Send for a policeman,
and let him carry it to the Refuge or whatever
is the proper place for it. You can''t have all
the paupers in the town----"
"It is hurt," the Gadfly repeated; "it can go
to the Refuge to-morrow, if necessary, but I must
see to the child first and give it some food."
Zita made a little grimace of disgust. "You''ve
got its head right against your shirt! How CAN
you? It is dirty!"
The Gadfly looked up with a sudden flash of anger.
"It is hungry," he said fiercely. "You don''t
know what that means, do you?"
"Signer Rivarez," interposed Gemma, coming
forward, "my lodgings are quite close. Let us
take the child in there. Then, if you cannot find
a vettura, I will manage to put it up for the
night."
He turned round quickly. "You don''t mind?"
"Of course not. Good-night, Mme. Reni!"
The gipsy, with a stiff bow and an angry shrug
of her shoulders, took her officer''s arm again, and,
gathering up the train of her dress, swept past
them to the contested carriage.
"I will send it back to fetch you and the child,
if you like, M. Rivarez," she said, pausing on the
doorstep.
"Very well; I will give the address." He came
out on to the pavement, gave the address to the
driver, and walked back to Gemma with his burden.
Katie was waiting up for her mistress; and, on
hearing what had happened, ran for warm water
and other necessaries. Placing the child on a
chair, the Gadfly knelt down beside him, and,
deftly slipping off the ragged clothing, bathed
and bandaged the wound with tender, skilful
hands. He had just finished washing the boy, and
was wrapping him in a warm blanket, when
Gemma came in with a tray in her hands.
"Is your patient ready for his supper?" she
asked, smiling at the strange little figure. "I
have been cooking it for him."
The Gadfly stood up and rolled the dirty rags
together. "I''m afraid we have made a terrible
mess in your room," he said. "As for these, they
had better go straight into the fire, and I will buy
him some new clothes to-morrow. Have you any
brandy in the house, signora? I think he ought
to have a little. I will just wash my hands, if you
will allow me."
When the child had finished his supper, he
immediately went to sleep in the Gadfly''s arms, with
his rough head against the white shirt-front.
Gemma, who had been helping Katie to set the
disordered room tidy again, sat down at the table.
"Signor Rivarez, you must take something
before you go home--you had hardly any dinner,
and it''s very late."
"I should like a cup of tea in the English fashion,
if you have it. I''m sorry to keep you up so late."
"Oh! that doesn''t matter. Put the child down
on the sofa; he will tire you. Wait a minute; I
will just lay a sheet over the cushions. What are
you going to do with him?"
"To-morrow? Find out whether he has any
other relations except that drunken brute; and
if not, I suppose I must follow Mme. Reni''s advice,
and take him to the Refuge. Perhaps the
kindest thing to do would be to put a stone round
his neck and pitch him into the river there; but
that would expose me to unpleasant consequences.
Fast asleep! What an odd little lump of ill-luck
you are, you mite--not half as capable of defending
yourself as a stray cat!"
When Katie brought in the tea-tray, the boy
opened his eyes and sat up with a bewildered air.
Recognizing the Gadfly, whom he already regarded
as his natural protector, he wriggled off
the sofa, and, much encumbered by the folds of
his blanket, came up to nestle against him. He
was by now sufficiently revived to be inquisitive;
and, pointing to the mutilated left hand, in which
the Gadfly was holding a piece of cake, asked:
"What''s that?"
"That? Cake; do you want some? I think
you''ve had enough for now. Wait till to-morrow,
little man."
"No--that!" He stretched out his hand and
touched the stumps of the amputated fingers and
the great scar on the wrist. The Gadfly put down
his cake.
"Oh, that! It''s the same sort of thing as what
you have on your shoulder--a hit I got from
someone stronger than I was."
"Didn''t it hurt awfully?"
"Oh, I don''t know--not more than other
things. There, now, go to sleep again; you have
no business asking questions at this time of night."
When the carriage arrived the boy was again
asleep; and the Gadfly, without awaking him,
lifted him gently and carried him out on to the
stairs.
"You have been a sort of ministering angel to
me to-day," he said to Gemma, pausing at the
door. "But I suppose that need not prevent us
from quarrelling to our heart''s content in future."
"I have no desire to quarrel with anyone."
"Ah! but I have. Life would be unendurable
without quarrels. A good quarrel is the salt of
the earth; it''s better than a variety show!"
And with that he went downstairs, laughing
softly to himself, with the sleeping child in his
arms.